


A Worthy Soul

by taoroo



Series: The Bonds of Brotherhood [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Abuse, Antionne's in trouble again, Corporal Punishment, Hurt/Comfort, This time it's not his fault, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoroo/pseuds/taoroo
Summary: The road to redemption is paved in sorrow. Antionne discovers that in order to find one's worth there is only so far that one can travel alone. Unfortunately for him, that discovery may come a little too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I felt like torturing my OC just a little bit. Because I am a terrible person.  
> Everyone loves a nice big dollop of whump, right? :D

Antionne sat down wearily upon the bench, hair still damp from his brief wash between the practice fields and his evening meal. His body ached from the attentions of Porthos and the other mentors, but it was a good feeling, a badge of honour for having withstood yet another day of training.

A hand descended on his head, ruffling his hair as Porthos sat heavily beside him, Athos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan taking places opposite.

“Good work out there today, runt,” Porthos said with a grin. He took up a roll from the bowl in the table centre and tore into it with vigour. “Only sent you on your arse half a dozen times,” he spoke around the bite.

Six months ago Antionne would have sneered at the man’s poor manners and rough speech. But six months ago Antionne d’Melliour had been another man entirely. He said nothing but ducked his head in acknowledgement of the praise.

“Tomorrow you and d’Artagnan shall spar,” Athos said, “I want to see your progress with your supporting leg,” he said to Antionne, “and yours on that dismal reverse parry,” he told d’Artagnan sternly.

The boy, who had been smirking a moment before, dropped his mouth into a pout. When Athos raised a brow he said quickly, “yes, Athos.”

Porthos chuckled and winked at the lad. “He ain’t going easy on you, whelp, just like I ain’t going easy on the runt here.”

Antionne managed to look away before rolling his eyes at the nickname, knowing it would earn him a boxed ear should the man catch him. Porthos was a stern master, yes, but fair. What he didn’t see he didn’t punish.

The banter continued as he ate, allowing the other four to carry the conversation as he focused on finishing as fast as was polite. When his plate was clear he stood.

“You’re not joining us for a game?” d’Artagnan asked, though his knowing smile suggested he knew his friend’s answer.

“My apologies, gentlemen, but another time,” Antionne said his part by rote, all of them knowing it was a rare day when he joined them after the evening meal.

“You keep working yourself this hard and you’ll get a reputation for hard work,” Aramis chuckled, taking a sip of wine.

Antionne smiled and bowed to the four without another word. He left the dining hall, heading through the corridors and crossing the courtyard with as much haste as he could without running. There was still much to do.

The armoury was warm when he entered, as he knew it would be thanks to his attention to the fire during his lunchtime reprieve. A kettle of water simmered over it, perfect for aiding him in his battle against a few of the more stubborn flagstones. But first there was polishing and sharpening to take care of, and the continuing saga of the store’s indexing – a pet project he had begun with Treville’s amused blessing. He saw that the bin where the broken leathers were discarded had once more filled, and gave only a small sigh. The indexing could wait until the morning. He was always better at tackling it before breakfast anyway.

By the time Antionne was finished the midnight bells had long since tolled. He banked the fire and carefully put away his tools, ensuring nothing was out of place before he slipped from the room.

The courtyard was dark at this time of night, even the gate guard had closed up and gone to his bed. The moon shone dully behind a cloud, only just lighting the way for his tired eyes. He looked up to it with a smile of tired satisfaction.

A hand from the darkness wrapped around his mouth, pulling Antionne further into the shadows. Another hand, a fist this time, drove sharply into his side, winding him and sending him gasping to his knees.

“You don’t belong here, _scum_ ,” a sinister voice whispered harshly, the second hand coming up to twist painfully into his hair. Before he could retaliate, Antionne was thrown forward, barely able to catch himself in time as he landed in the mud.

He heard laughter retreating with a pair of boots, but by the time he had staggered to his feet the assailant was gone.

oOo

“Keep your guard up, lad, how many times have I told you?” Athos barked.

D’Artagnan stepped away from Antionne, allowing his friend a welcome reprieve.

“My apologies,” Antionne said, hiding his wince as he attempted to lift his sword arm higher. “I think I may have strained a muscle at yesterday’s sparring.”

“You won’t always be at full fighting fitness,” Athos said sternly. “Adapt your style to compensate for any injury.”

“Yes, sir,” Antionne said and did as the man bid without further complaint.

When they paused for luncheon, d’Artagnan stopped his friend as Antionne took up his ale and bread and made towards the armoury.

“Surely you can take a few minute’s rest?”

Antionne’s gaze darted over to where Porthos and Athos sat at their own repast, then flashed d’Artagnan an easy smile.

“I’ll rest easer knowing I’ve seen to my duties. I’ll return before I’m looked for.”

D’Artagnan gave a roll of his eyes and affectionate huff, knowing it was useless to argue the point further.

As Antionne headed to the armoury he made a quick list of chores in his head. First the day’s repairs would need to be attended to, along with any blades that required sharpening. Thanks to his hard work yesterday there would only be those delivered that morning, making fast work, which would allow him to oil the leathers and perhaps see to some more indexing before Athos demanded his return.

Opening the armoury door, however, Antionne noted with mild dismay that both the leathers bin and the sword barrel were both filled to the brim. Had a detachment just returned from duty? Still, it was useless to wonder, repairs needed to be attended to, wherever they might have come from.

The bells tolled much sooner than Antionne had anticipated, and he set down his work with a frustrated sigh. His bruised side must have slowed him down more than he had expected. A late night would see the repairs complete, but he reluctantly concluded that no progress on his catalogue would happen tonight.

He was still thinking about his work whilst carrying his meal to a spare bench that evening, which was likely why he stumbled, tripped by the sheathed sword of a musketeer.

Meat stew and bread scattered upon the floor, his wine slopping messily over his hand and shirt. Thankfully he missed the seated musketeers, but could do nothing to save his knees their descent into the muddy floor.

There was a rumble of laughter, not all of it friendly, but Antionne was saved from further embarrassment by a hand that came to help him to his feet.

“My apologies,” Bavierre said sincerely. “I should have taken more care to stow my weapon. Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride and shirt,” Antione said with a rueful smile.

The musketeer laughed heartily and clapped him on the back. The friendly blow landed squarely upon his bruised side, and Antionne had to bite down hard on his cheek to stop any sound of pain escaping.

“Try to look where you’re going, lad,” Bavierre said, handing him his bowl and now sodden bread.

Antionne nodded bashfully, blushing at the gentle reprimand, and returned to the cook for a second helping.

Unfortunately, there was scant supply left in the pot, and so he took a simple helping of bread and cheese instead, glad that this made it easier to slip back to the armoury to continue his work.

 oOo

The bells had finished tolling and d’Artagnan was becoming worried. He had not seen Antionne that morning and now his friend was late to muster. Treville would not excuse his absence, even if Antionne had been attending to his duties in the armoury, which was most likely.

A cleared throat and a nudge to his ribs had him standing to attention, his gaze fixed forward.

Treville gave him a passing look over and nodded in satisfaction. D’Artagnan twitched a smile but quickly settled his features back into a passive mein when the captain’s own face turned stern. Treville allowed him a swift wink before continuing along the line.

Movement at the end of the line caught his attention and with relief he caught sight of Antionne as the man hastily stepped into place. D’Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief; his friend was on treacherous enough ground as it was, without adding insubordination to his list of infractions. His dedication to his duties in the armoury was becoming a near dangerous fixation.

“What is the meaning of this, cadet?” Treville growled.

D’Artagnan strained to see what had provoked such a dark tone from the Captain, tilting his head as much as he dared in an effort to look his friend over.

“My sincere apologies, sir,” Antionne said, his voice full of sincere mortification, “I could not find a clean shirt this morning.”

“Do you think that you are somehow exempt from parade rules?” The captain asked, voice tinged with dark sarcasm.

“No, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Damn right, it won’t,” Treville growled. “I was going to have you join the guard of his Majesty today, but since you’ve dressed for no better than a scullery that’s where you can stay today. Dismissed, the lot of you!”

Finally able to go to his friend, d’Artagnan saw the extent of the damage. A large wine stain covered Antionne’s right sleeve, some sort of gravy on the breastfront, half hidden by his leathers.

“Dear God, Antionne, didn’t you have anything better to wear?” he asked incredulously. His friend was usually nearly as meticulous in his dress as Aramis.

Antionne’s face was still flushed from the Captain’s harsh words and from the laughter of those of their brothers who did not bother to hide it.

“I could not,” he said, in a tone that begged d’Artagnan to drop the topic.

“Even a worn shirt would have been better,” d’Artagnan pushed. “Treville doesn’t expect us to be saints.”

“There were no other shirts,” Antionne muttered, avoiding d’Artagnan’s eye.

“They can’t all be at the laundry.”

“Charles, please, _enough_ ,” Antionne said, a little testily. “I must find Serge and see to my work.”

 “Very well,” d’Artagnan relented. He watched his friend walk away, frowning at the slumped shoulders and the air of defeat about him. Perhaps Antionne was taking on more than he could manage if he was even forgetting his own laundry. His expression cleared. On his return from the palace, d’Artagnan would offer his services to Antionne, that would hopefully go some way in alleviating his friend’s burdens.

 oOo

Aramis eyed the target with a raised brow.

“Honestly, I believe you are getting worse instead of improving,” he tutted. “Not a single shot on target and this is barely half of the maximum distance.”

“My apologies, monsieur,” Antionne said, forcing himself not to mumble or look away from the scolding. He could hear muffled tittering from some of the newest recruits. They were several years his junior and yet already wise to his pariah status amongst the men. Aramis pretended not to hear them.

“A blind man could shoot better,” he sneered.

“I have no excuse,” Antionne said, biting down half a dozen. He was tired – exhausted really after yet another late night of repairs and cleaning. He couldn’t focus on the target, his eyes blurring at each attempt. His whole body felt like a giant bruise, the weight of the pistol enough to have his arms trembling. He could not be certain, but he thought that his feet might have swollen, that or his boots had grown smaller, his feet pinched to the point where standing was nearing agony.

Aramis sighed and gave an irritable wave of his hand. “If you cannot muster even the barest the enthusiasm for your training then I see no reason to waste time in teaching you,” he snapped. “Go. Return only when you have decided to take this training seriously.”

“Monsieur, I do—“

“You are _dismissed_ , private.”

Antionne’s mouth snapped closed. He gave a stiff salute and turned away, refusing to look at the recruits as he passed them. At least he could make some time in the Armoury out of this disgrace. He had woken before breakfast to see to his duties and now nothing was left to stop him from a good long stint at the catalogue.

He entered the armoury and shut the door behind him, leaning on it briefly to massage away the dizzying weariness from his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he straightened, resolve crystallising, and went to the office pulling open the first of his indexing drawers.

It took several moments for Antionne’s tired mind to decipher what his eyes were showing him, but when it did it was as if he had been eviscerated. He reached into the drawer and pulled out a handful of his cards, every one of them torn to pieces. He could see his neat handwriting upon them still, the words now indecipherable. Frantically Antionne pulled open the next draw and the next, but only destruction greeted him.

If was some hours later when d’Artagnan knocked upon the armoury door, entering after a long pause. He sae Antionne, hard at work at the quartermaster’s desk, his head bent over one of his indexing cards as he wrote in neat script.

“Missing meals now?” he asked, lips curled up in wry amusement.

Antionne startled and then cursed, quickly blotting the smudged line before he looked up. The crease of irritation in his brow cleared when he saw d’Artagnan, giving his friend an easy smile. His face was a little pale, and his eyes red from the thin candle light, but otherwise he seemed his cheerfully reserved self.

“Apologies, my friend, I was absorbed in my work.”

“Clearly,” d’Artagnan chuckled. He stepped closer, setting down a mug of beer and a plate of cheese and apple before Antionne. “Lunch ended quite a while ago.”

Antionne leapt up, his eyes wide. “Was I looked for? I quite forgot the time!”

“Easy, brother,” d’Artagnan said, hands raised placatingly. “Athos and the rest were called away on duty. We have the rest of the afternoon to devote to our own training.”

Antionne relaxed with a weary sigh, sinking back down into his chair. “Thank God.”

“Eat,” d’Artagnan encouraged. “Your cards will still be here when you’re done.

Some strange emotion flickered across Antionne’s face but it soon settled into another smile. “I suppose you are right.”

“Always,” d’Artagnan laughed. “I find myself at a loose end and thought I might offer my services here. I could do with some company and you and I haven’t had much time to talk these past few weeks,” he continued when Antionne made to protest.

The man relaxed, relenting with a happy nod. “Well, if you are offering I would not object to some aid with the repairs. There were quite a few delivered this morning.”

D’Artagnan eyed the overflowing bin. “I’d say so,” he said, though he wondered what it was Antionne was doing in here if it wasn’t attending to what looked to be several day’s worth of repairs at least.

“I heard about your spat with Aramis this morning,” he said, as he selected the first sword and settled himself down at the grindstone.

Antionne sighed and shrugged. “It was my fault, really… my mind was on other matters.”

“Your indexing, perhaps?” d’Artagnan guessed. Aramis had complained at length that lunchtime that Antionne was spending far too much time at his hobby than focussing on his duties. Loath as he was to agree, d’Artagnan was beginning to suspect that might be the case.

“Hmm,” Antionne replied noncommittally. He was bent back over his cards again, quill moving fast but precisely.

They sat like that until close to supper time, often in companionable silence, but several times in animated conversation whenever d’Artagnan could coax it from his friend.

Not long before the supper bell rang, the door to the armoury was pushed roughly open.

“There you are,” Aramis said, “We thought you had snuck away to a tavern while we were busy protecting the king from the dangers of croquet.” Behind the Spaniard Porthos and Athos stood waiting.

D’Artagnan stood to his feet, stretching widely. “Is it supper time? I’m starving.”

“Charles,” Athos said, his tone ominous. “Have you been working here all afternoon?”

D’Artagnan frowned. Why did Athos sound upset about him working when the opposite was usually the case? “Well yes, I found myself with some free time and offered to assist Antionne with some repairs,” he said, a touch defensively.

“That’s his job, not yours,” Porthos said, his expression stern.

“Well, yes, I know that,” d’Artagnan fumbled, “I did not see the harm in—”

“My apologies, sirs,” Antionne spoke up. He stood from his desk, the movement looking stiff – not surprising given the length of time he had been sat there – and bowed his head to the two mentors. “It shall not happen again.”

Porthos was looking over the armoury with the same stern eye. There was a thin layer of dust on the shelving and the floor was dirty with boot-tracks. “P’rhaps you’d better get this place sorted, before you come to supper,” he said, the words not a suggestion.

Antionne seemed to shrink in on himself, two high spots of colour blooming on his cheeks. “Yes, monsieur,” he said quietly, his head hanging away from his mentor’s frown.

“Come along, Charles,” Aramis said, in the clipped tone he used only when d’Artagnan was in trouble.

As d’Artagnan followed the three inseparables he looked over to Antionne and mouthed a hasty sorry, but his friend simply frowned and sadly shook his head.

Antionne did not come to supper. Though he caught Porthos and Athos exchange a loaded glance, d’Artagnan, still in disgrace, knew it best to keep quiet on the matter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one today. I decided to end the chapter here as it flowed better with the next part, and to have a 4th chapter to round things off. Let me know what you think ;) T x

Antionne peeked out from the armoury door at a little past the first bell. Seeing his way was clear, he swiftly crossed the courtyard and ducked into the passage that led to his chambers.

He tried not to think about how he had come to be a thief in his own house.

_This will pass, d’Melliour. Prove your worth and this must surely pass._

The fist was swift, coming from a dark alcove to rattle the back on his skull. Antionne fell, feeling his left wrist wrench on the landing, and had no time to shield from the boot that landed heavily in his ribs. The breath left him with a wheeze. Winded, his head too dizzy from the blow, he could do little but shield his face as the boot landed several more times against his stomach and ribs.

By the time he realised that the assault was over, his attacker had melted into the night.

Groaning softly, and wiping the bile from his lips, Antionne slowly dragged himself to his knees. He stayed there a little while, fighting the way the world span. Then, slowly, he retrieved his hat and staggered, with the wall as his crutch, to his room.

Antionne had barely any energy left in him to drag off his outer clothes, leaving his breeches in place as he pulled back his bedclothes and made to sink into the cot.

Mercifully the smell hit him before he could.

Antionne stood for a long time in the darkness of his room, staring at the mess tucked neatly inside his usually pristine bed. Manure and even less savoury leavings from the garrison’s muck heap, if he were any judge.

He considered his options with a weary mind. Leaving the room, either to fetch clean linens or to seek a room at a local inn, was out of the question. If the shadows in the dark were not threat enough, the questions that might be raised were even less of a pleasant prospect.

His mind swam out of focus, the sound of his laboured breathing loud in the ringing silence.

With a bone-weary hand, Antionne took the pillow from his cot, glad to see it was not itself stained with muck, and laid it upon his bedroom floor.

oOo

Antionne stared at his breakfast the next morning, too tired to even contemplate eating.

He wasn’t surprised when d’Artagnan slipped onto the bench next to him, only sparing him a cursory greeting before returning to his meal.

“You look terrible,” d’Artagnan supplied. It did not get the laugh that he had hoped for.

“My friend, I _feel_ terrible,” Antionne said with a sardonic curve of the lip.

“You’ve been working awfully hard lately,” d’Artagnan said with honest concern. “Perhaps you should take a step back from your indexing project for a while, it must surely be a fair way to completion by now.”

“And what would you know of it?” Antionne snapped, immediately regretting the outburst. His temper seemed on such a short fuse these days. It was unfair to suspect Charles of any wrongdoing; he was his only and truest friend in the garrison, after all. “My apologies, my friend, that was unjust,” he said, running a trembling hand through his hair.

“Antionne, are you well?” d’Artagnan asked, this time with more focused concern.

“I… it’s nothing,” Antionne forced a smile, “truly, I am just tired. I slept… poorly,” he finished lamely.

It wasn’t as if he could let his friend discover the truth.

D’Artagnan gave him a look that said plainly he hadn’t been believed, but he didn’t force the issue, and the pair ate their meal in silence after that.

They were making their way from the hall to the training grounds. D’Artagnan was prattling on about some nonsense, likely attempting to lift his mood, but Antionne found himself instead focused upon a pair of musketeers heading toward them. One was the veteran Bavierre, the other a man a few years Antionne’s senior, of the name Forbin. Bavierre was showing Forbin something in his hand; something amusing, judging by the man’s reaction. As they passed, Antionne caught a glimpse of the object and froze in place.

“Antionne? What is it?” he heard d’Artagnan ask but he was already striding back down the hall, catching Bavierre’s arm and pulling him to a halt.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded, caring nothing for his rudeness.

“Hmm?” Bavierre replied, brow lifted sardonically. “You mean this?” The paper flashed into view once more, for barely a second, but in that time Antionne was certain he had seen his own, neat script. “Just a souvenir I picked up the last time I dealt with some Parisian scum.”

Antionne felt his blood turn to ice. Bavierre had always been at the very least respectful to him on the few occasions they crossed paths, but that scrap of card, and the dreadfully familiar way he’d spoken…

“It was you,” he snarled.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Bavierre said airily as beside him Forbin snickered behind a genteel hand. “But if there is some imaginary wrong I have done to you then I am pleased to offer you satisfaction.”

Beside him, Antionne heard d’Artagnan gasp. He hadn’t heard his friend approach but felt him now, as he tugged upon his arm.

“Antionne, whatever this is I’m sure there is no reason to resort to—”

“I accept,” he said, loading the words with venom enough to poison the man.

Bavierre’s wide smile held no humour. “Good,” he sneered. “Meet me within the walls of the _Saints Innocents_ at its border with the _Rue aux Fers_ , tonight at first bell.”

The pair left, Forbin glancing over his shoulder to shoot Antionne a last, malicious smile.

“Antionne, what was that about?” d’Artagnan demanded, as Antionne stared after the pair, his chest still heaving with suppressed rage.

“It is a private matter,” he muttered.

“Do I need to remind you that duelling is illegal?” d’Artagnan pressed. “Never mind that, but Athos and Porthos will skin our hides if they found out!”

Antionne frowned and turned to his friend, blinking owlishly. ““Our”?”

“You don’t think you’re going alone do you?” d’Artagnan huffed. “Look. Whatever this is about, you need a second, and I’ll be damned if you’re going out duelling without me by your side.”

Antionne’s heart clenched and he felt the tell-tale burn of tears pressing at his eyes. He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, fixing him with a sincere gaze.

“Charles, I cannot ask this of you—”

“There is no need, brother.”

Antionne took as deep a breath as his burning ribs allowed, then nodded. “Then I thank you.”

“Will you not tell me what this is about?” d’Artagnan asked quietly.

Antionne paused in indecision but finally shook his head. It was bad enough that he was dragging his friend into his own disagreements, he did not need to burden him with the trivialities of the matter.

“Would you trust me if I said that my reasoning was just?”

“I would.”

“Then, with tonight’s duel the matter will be settled, and we’ll need speak no more about it,” Antionne said firmly. “Now, come, or we shall both be late for Athos’s training and I’ve caused you enough trouble as it is.”

oOo

The night was dark, clouds covering the moon and stars. Antionne and d’Artagnan made their way swiftly through the columns and stakes of the cemetery, their path lit by the occasional guttering torch. The wall of the cemetery was tall and foreboding, looming before them a good while before they reached its edge.

“No sign yet of our opponents,” d’Artagnan muttered, breathing warmth into his chilled hands.

Antionne gave a non-committal grunt, his thoughts despondent.

“Do stop worrying, my friend,” d’Artagnan said, clapping him heartily upon the shoulder. “Though he might have wronged you, Bavierre is still Musketeer. I’ll not ask you if you’re certain of your course of action but I’ll at least ask you to be cheerful about what will likely be a splendid fight.”

Antionne had to quirk a smile at that. “My apologies, _mon ami_. Of course, we should be more happy about breaking the king’s law and fighting with our sworn brothers.”

“That’s the spirit,” d’Artagnan grinned. “Our hides are skinned either way, so we may as well enjoy ourselves.”

“Your great optimism is a quality which I have always admired in you, my friend.” Antionne said.

“I wish they would hurry,” d’Artagnan huffed, rubbing his hands together for the thousandth time. “It is long past first bells.”

Antionne squinted into the darkness. “He comes,” he said, standing tall. His hand was strong and firm, his chin raised in defiance of all Bavierre had done against him. He ignored the throbbing in his temple, and the way he could not quite clench his left hand onto a fist. No time for that now, not when his honour was at stake.

When the men stepped into the light of the closest flickering torch, he realised his grave error.

“Halt! Keep your hands from your weapons, in the name of the King!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Suffer and cry~

Treville sat in his chair and surveyed the two young Musketeers standing before him. They were nervous and had every right to be. The door had just closed behind their escort back to barracks; a squadron of marshals led by a weary corporal with whom Treville had come to be quite familiar, given his musketeers’ propensity for carousing and disturbing the peace, particularly where the red guards were concerned. As he had caught the current two miscreants at nothing more incriminating than loitering in a known duelling grounds, their weapons sheathed, the corporal had been content to escort them to the barracks and leave them to the tender mercies of their captain.

Treville eyed the pair. Of the two, d’Melliour looked more uneasy, though that might just be the overall dishevelled look he had been sporting the past few weeks. D’Artagnan on the other hand was straight-backed and radiating innocence. Both had been decidedly tight-lipped since their arrival.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that you were simply out for a stroll,” he said, acerbically. It was almost three o’clock. He could feel the headache nipping behind his eyes.

“That’s right, sir,” d’Artagnan said with a guileless smile.

“At night. In a cemetery,” Treville deadpanned.

“Yes, sir.”

“And I suppose,” Treville huffed, sitting back in his chair, “that it being a known and popular ground for duelling didn’t factor in to your choice of location.”

“Duelling is forbidden by the king, sir!” D’Artagnan said, managing to sound almost completely shocked.

“I suppose I’d never catch you doing such a thing,” Treville added sarcastically.

“You most certainly wouldn’t, sir!”

Treville brought a hand before his mouth, managing to hide his smile while keeping his eyes hard. He let them wait there, d’Artagnan practically vibrating with energetic nerves. D’Melliour, however, just looked tired.

“I’m surprised you boys had the energy to go walking just a few hours before your duties.”

D’Artagnan’s brow creased in a confused frown. “Sir?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your shift upon the wall?” Treville asked, not bothering to hide his smirk. “By my counts you’ve less than three hours before it starts.”

D’Artagnan’s face had lost its eagerness and he swallowed dryly. “I ah… yes, sir.”

“Best get some rest then, hmm?”

“…yes, sir.” D’Artagnan knew a dismissal when he heard one, giving a swift salute and a brief glance toward Antionne before heading towards the door.

“Oh, and private?” Treville interrupted him when his hand was upon the door handle.

“Sir?”

“Athos will be hearing about this.”

D’Artagnan deflated. “Yes, sir.”

“As for you,” Treville said to Antionne when the door had closed behind the dejected boy, “I would have thought you’d have better things to do with your time than invite more trouble on yourself… or drag others in to it.”

D’Melliour winced. “Yes, sir,” he said weakly.

“You’re both damned lucky the marshals found you alone and not with a pair of red guards to incriminate you further.”

“There were no red guards,” d’Melliour objected.

Treville huffed a sardonic laugh. “That would be a novelty. I thought you were making a profession out of antagonising them, seeing as you seem to think your real duties a holiday.”

The boy’s face fell into a pale grimace. “Sir, I can assure you—!”

“I’ve spoken with your superiors, lad,” Treville cut in. “When you asked for the quartermaster’s position I thought I’d give you the benefit of the doubt; a chance to redeem yourself. Given your performance so far I’m beginning to suspect that trust might have been misplaced.”

“It’s not, sir, I swear it!”

Treville stayed quiet, assessing d’Melliour coolly. The boy at least looked sincere, but if Porthos and the others were to be believed the state of the armoury didn’t match his enthusiasm. He looked positively ill at the thought of losing his position. Perhaps it was experience the boy lacked, rather than motivation. A demotion might keep him from running himself into the ground at least.

Treville sighed. “Then you’ve got some work to do, don’t you think?”

D’Melliour sucked in a deep breath and then snapped a smart salute. “Yes, sir.”

“This is your final warning, lad. If you can’t keep up with your duties then I have no qualms in reassigning you to something more suitable.”

D’Melliour nodded in quick jerks, eyes wide within a grey-pale face. With another salute he hurried to the door. Treville watched him leave and then sank back into his chair, shaking his head.

oOo

Antionne sagged when he heard the eighth bell began to chime. Still, he was pleased with his progress, though it had been slower than usual. The room was swept, the tiles scrubbed, the repairs dealt with, and the surplus uniforms brushed. He still had the leathers to see to, and the accounts to tackle, but his eyes were too weary for fine work just now.

At least he had not far to go for his first lessons of the day, stepping out into the courtyard where the other recruits were assembling.

There were three, all of approximate age, and none whom Antionne could call friend.

“Where is Charles?” the youngest, Pepin, asked the other two. “Surely not on guard duty again?”

“I heard he was brought in by marshals in the early hours,” de Bissy – an aloof and cold young man from a good noble house – replied. Antionne did not miss the slanted glance in his direction. “Something about a duel… wasn’t it d’Melliour?”

Antionne stiffened. “That is none of your business,” he muttered darkly.

“Well I must say if you’re intent on trawling your good name through the mud you could at least have the decency not to drag others with you,” de Bissy sneered.

The third recruit, an eager and brash lad named d’Arcy, gave a snort. “What good name? His father’s a traitor.”

Antionne clenched his jaw tightly, his hands following suit, despite the left protesting painfully. “You know _nothing_ about me,” he hissed.

“Surely it’s a matter of public record,” d’Arcy laughed. “Pity his head didn’t end up with all the other traitors’ on the Bastille.”

Antionne surged forwards, but Pepin and de Bissy stepped between them, one with a hand upon d’Arcy’s shoulder, holding him back, whilst the other held his hands out toward Antionne. At the same time Antionne felt a strong grip about his upper arm and he was jerked to a standstill. He whirled about, his anger rapidly draining along with the blood from his face when confronted with Porthos’ stern frown.

“Been looking for you,” the man rumbled lowly. Then he looked over to the three other recruits, who each now stood to attention under his glower.

“Sir, I—” d’Arcy began.

“He said—” Antionne started at the same time.

“I heard _exactly_ what he said, runt,” Porthos growled, eyes fixed on d’Arcy, “and he ain’t ever going to say it again. That clear?”

“Yes, sir,” d’Arcy said with a nervous swallow.

Porthos gave a tight nod and then pulled Antionne away. As they retreated, Antionne caught d’Arcy smirking at him again, but forced himself to look away.

“Went by your room earlier, lookin’ for you,” Porthos said, coming to a halt in a quiet corner of the courtyard. His hand still held Antionne’s arm in a near-painful grip but the boy wasn’t about to protest his manhandling at that moment. “It’s filthy.”

Antionne felt his cheeks heating, dropping his head so that the man could not see the tears that were pricking at his eyes. “I…” he fumbled.

Porthos sighed heavily, dropping his hand and stepping away from him. “You look like shite… have you even changed since you got back?”

Not trusting himself to answer, Antionne merely shook his head.

“Perhaps if you stopped tryin’ to fight everyone every damn minute and stuck to your duties you might not be in this mess,” Porthos grumbled, but his words had a kind edge to them. “I know it ain’t easy, keeping your temper when pricks like d’Arcy can’t keep their mouths shut, but you gotta try, yeah?”

Antionne couldn’t help it; a frustrated tear broke free of his lashes and trickled down his cheek. He kept his head averted, and prayed the man didn’t see. “I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled, trying to keep his voice in check.

“Yeah, right,” Porthos said, and his gruff, uncomfortable manner suggested that he had seen, dammit. “Well, you got a room to clean, yeah? I’ll let Aramis know you’ll miss mornin’ practice. But I expect to see you for my lesson at twelve.”

“Yes, sir,” Antionne said, and then practically fled at the man’s dismissal.

He hurried through the hallways to his room, not caring at the looks he received, most unfriendly or at least exasperated at seeing d’Melliour yet again in trouble. _That was all he was, really: one disappointment after another._

His room was indeed filthy.

They had been strategic at least: to a casual eye this was no more than the mess of a lazy youth. Hidden beneath, however, was the true damage: a crack in his shaving mirror, his newly laundered shirts trampled by dirty boots, a pot of ink “accidentally” upturned to soak into the books on his writing desk – books that had previously been carefully packed away with the remainder of his private possessions in the trunk beside his bed.

He picked one up, watching as the pages dripped blackly onto the tabletop.

He wasn’t angry, he realised. He wasn’t anything. A hollowness has settled where his heart should be.

Slowly, he began to clean.

oOo

Porthos frowned as the recruits assembled after their midday meal. Despite his leniency it seemed like Antionne was going to be late, if he appeared at all. The three before him shot one-another knowing glances, but after the morning’s trouble they remained quiet.

 _Maybe Treville was right_ , he pondered. Maybe this stuff with the armoury was too much for the runt. He’d been glad when Antionne had made the request of their captain, knowing what it was like to try and prove yourself to a load of nobles’ sons who came born with a list of prejudices a yard long. Now he couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

_Couldn’t he keep his nose out of trouble for ten damn minutes?_

He was beginning to regret having let the runt off so easily before when Antionne appeared, moving slower than Porthos liked to see, shuffling his feet like a schoolboy on his way to lessons. He quickened his pace when Porthos raised his brow, however, hurrying into line with the other recruits with a shamefaced grimace.

_Right, time to shake him up a bit!_

“Today we’ll do some grappling,” Porthos said, slapping his hands together with a grin as all four recruits suppressed their groans. Porthos was not a gentle instructor. “Down to your breeches lads, no need to be shy.”

After a few moments of activity from three of the assembled, Porthos frowned, seeing that one member of his class was not following command. “Come on, d’Melliour, get that shirt off.”

“I, ah… thought I might keep it on, sir,” Antionne said sheepishly. “I have taken a chill and would like to not—”

“Ain’t my business to coddle you,” Porthos huffed. _Was the kid deliberately trying to piss him off today?_ “You’ll soon get warm enough without it.”

Antionne’s cheeks heated at the rebuke and he straightened, ignoring the muffled sniggers of the other recruits.

“Sir, if I could please—”

“Get that shirt off, d’Melliour,” Porthos growled, losing patience, “that’s an order.”

The air had grown tense. The recruits, at first amused by Antionne’s petulance, now stared at him sidelong, nervous with second-hand fear. Pepin, closest to him, tried to discreetly shuffle further away.

Antionne lifted his head proudly, chin stuck obstinately out.

“I will not, monsieur.”

The recruits held their collective breath. Porthos, face growing ruddy with anger, gave a snarl and stalked forward. He snatched Antionne’s upper arm and dragged him, unresisting, to the armoury.

oOo

Once inside Antionne was pushed roughly toward the centre of the room. He swung quickly around to face his mentor, his eyes wide.

“Sir, I did not mean to be impertinent. If you would let me explai—"

“You ran out of grace a few minutes back, runt,” Porthos snapped. “When I give you an order, you bloody well follow it. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, but—!”

“Shut it!” Porthos stabbed a finger at the quartermaster’s cabinet. “Now, since you’re so prissy about your clothes I’m goin’ to give you a choice: You can drop your precious britches and get my hand, or you can keep em’ on and get the strap.”

Antionne’s mouth snapped shut, teeth clacking together with the force of it. Porthos ignored his look of betrayal, fixing him with a hard glare.

“So, what’s it goin’ to be, runt?”

Antionne felt a cold stillness settle over him. Without a word, he crossed the room to the cabinet and withdrew the strap, coming back to stand before Porthos, holding it out before him. He tried to resist the tremble in his hand. Porthos would assume it was through fear, and he did not trust his fraying temper to correct him.

Porthos grunted sourly, clearly displeased by the choice. He snatched the strap and jerked his head to the weapon’s rack, weighing the leather in his hand as Antionne lay himself stiffly over the bar.

“I thought you were past this kind’a thing,” he said, his voice weighed so heavily with disappointment that Antionne felt awash with frustrated shame. “Maybe this’ll knock some sense into you.”

Antionne drew in a quick breath, barely ready when the strap fell. He pressed his eyes tightly shut, teeth clenched against any sound, and gripped the bar so tightly that he felt his fingers cramp, his left hand protesting loudly. The lash fell again and he hissed, gasping through the next half dozen as silently as he could. He’d never been whipped on injured flesh before and the feeling was monstrous, igniting the fading pain into an inferno. The rest of his body objected bitterly, aching muscles flaring, radiating along frayed nerves to his core. His head ached so badly that even when he opened his eyes at a particularly painful blow, his vision was blurred and grey at the edges. Spots danced before his eyes, pops and fizzles of white and black light dancing along his vision. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to taste blood, focusing on the sensation instead of the strap that rose and fell with almost mechanical regularity. It _hurt_. It hurt so badly. But not as much as his heart. He had never felt at such a loss, so rejected and alone. Even worse than when Gaspard left, because this time he had been _trying_ dammit! He tried, and he tried, and he _tried_ , but in the end, it wasn’t good enough. _He_ wasn’t good enough.

Porthos ended much sooner than he expected, leaving him gasping upon the rack. He hadn’t cried out, or shed tears, much to his surprise. His chest was tight, every breath agony.

“Stand up, runt.”

He obeyed – what else could he do? – then turned to stand to attention before his mentor, eyes fixed as well as he was able on a point just beyond the man’s head. He fought to keep his breathing under control, short, shallow breaths hurting less than deeper ones.

Hands came to rest on his shoulders. One still held the strap. It was dry, Antionne noted. He had neglected to oil it over the past few days. Another failing.

“Looks like you’ve got some work to catch up on here,” Porthos said gruffly, looking about the armoury with yet more disapproval. “You’ll stay until it’s done. Tomorrow you’n me’ll see about making up today’s lesson, understood?”

Antionne’s heart sank to his belly, but he nodded all the same, croaking out a hasty “yessir”.

Porthos sighed, one hand moving to rub the boy’s hair. “You were doin’ well for a while at the beginning there, runt. Don’t screw it up now, yeah?”

Antionne nodded wordlessly and waited at attention until the man had left. Then he surveyed the armoury with blurred vision for a long moment, taking in the piled ashes in the fire grate; the dirt scattered upon the floor; the full repair bins.... one sword bent improbably almost in half... They weren’t even trying to be subtle now.

Shuffling his aching feet so as not to aggravate his flaming backside, Antionne crossed to the sword barrel. His hand barely closed on a hilt before the room swayed alarmingly like the deck of a ship, and Antionne crashed to the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely reviews. I can't tell you how encouraging they are for me. There's one more story in this series left (a certain Bergundian incident...) but if you have any other suggestions do let me know! T x

D’Artagnan sat at Antionne’s bedside, his friend’s uninjured hand in his. He heard the door to the infirmary open but didn’t turn, his gaze locked on Antionne’s face for any sign of him awaking.

“How is he?” Athos asked softly.

“As well as could be expected,” Aramis replied with a sigh. He was laying out fresh bandaging on the table beside the bed, wiped clean now of the boy’s blood.

“I drained what foulness I could from the more infected of the wounds, and wrapped his broken ribs as best I was able. The rest will take time… How is Porthos?”

“Taking it badly, as you’d expect. He blames himself.”

“Of course he blames himself,” d’Artagnan scoffed angrily.

“Charles…” Athos growled the warning.

D’Artagnan jumped to his feet, unable to bear the tension any longer. “Well, what else could he do after beating Antionne senseless?”

“D’Artagnan, that is enough,” Athos said sharply. “You know that he would never punish Antionne to excess.”

D’Artagnan quieted. Despite all that had happened since his lecture with the man this morning, he was still in Athos’s bad graces over his activities the night before. Pushing his luck now would likely see him receive the thrashing he’d so barely missed out on earlier.

“I would say he was fairly gentle, considering the extent of the boy’s other injuries,” Aramis said coolly.

D’Artagnan’s hands flexed in impotent fury for a moment longer and then he sagged, sinking back into the chair. “He should have listened,” he said bitterly. “He should have let him _explain_.”

“From the age of some of his injuries, the boy has had weeks to come to us,” Aramis said, his voice calm despite the tension in his jaw. “Porthos can not be to blame for that. We all should have taken greater care.”

The door creaked open and Porthos entered. He eyed the three darkly, then looked over to the bed where Antionne lay, face grey and tainted with sweat. The boy had a fever, blood poisoning from the many bruises that littered his torso and legs… anywhere that would remain hidden beneath his clothing. His right hand was bandaged, cut by a sword from his fall in the armoury; a nasty swelling above his eye where he had landed upon the stones. They had needed to cut his boots from him, sores covering his feet.

“I asked around,” he said, his tone dark, “no one’s talkin’.”

“Perhaps our young friend will provide the names himself, once he wakes,” Athos said.

“Better asking him for a list of those who _haven’t_ harmed him,” Aramis said, his tone deceptively light.

“What do you mean?” d’Artagnan demanded sharply.

“I mean that there is hardly a man in the barracks who hasn’t acted in a despicable manner toward the boy… myself included,” Aramis said solemnly. “To suggest that this came from one source is at best wilful ignorance.”

“There’s more,” Porthos said grimly. He dipped into a pocket, pulling out a handful of scorched, ripped parchment. “Found this in the fire grate. Someone burnt his index.”

D’Artagnan sucked in a breath, gaze fixed on the parchment. “I think I know who,” he said, eyes flashing with steel. He made to rise again but Athos pushed him firmly back into his seat.

“Brawling with our brothers over conjecture is not the answer,” his mentor said icily. “The matter is out of our hands now.”

“Don’t think Treville’ll let this slide, whelp,” Porthos said gruffly, seeing the objection in d’Artagnan’s eyes. “ _Everyone_ who hurt the runt’ll get what’s coming to ‘em.”

Porthos’s eyes had slid over to Aramis and then Athos as he spoke and the former winced at the inflection, the latter simply nodding in complete agreement.

oOo

Treville stood before the assembled troops, his hands clasped behind his back.

The men remained perfectly still, though the tension was nearly unbearable. Rage was coming off their Captain in oppressive waves, like the heat from a blazing furnace. The day was cool, but several men still sweated under the man’s gaze, their eyes glassy with the effort not to catch his piercing glare.

“You all know why you’re here,” Treville began. His voice was gruff, ominously calm. “I won’t go into details about the offence. The guilty among you know what you’ve done and God knows the man has suffered enough.”

Treville paused, glaring down the lines.

“ _More_ than enough,” he amended.

D’Artagnan held his breath. Even though he himself had nothing to fear, he still felt the weight of Treville’s disappointed rage and did not envy those it was directed toward in the slightest. Porthos was right, those responsible for his friend’s state were about to be very sorry indeed.

“I don’t care about your reasons any more than I care about your excuses,” said Treville. “What’s done is done and now it’s time to pay the price. For those of you who have honour enough to step forward, I’ll be fair… but I won’t be kind.”

Treville’s words seemed to echo in the silence that followed, weighing heavily in the air.

After a loaded pause, the first man moved. D’Artagnan saw with some surprise that it was Pepin.

The boy’s face was sickly white and his eyes wide with terror. Still he tried to stand tall as heads turned toward him, his whole body quaking against the furious stare Treville levied upon him. Still the captain gave him a brief, acknowledging nod, before turning back to the remaining troops.

D’Artagnan caught Porthos and Aramis sharing a look, both giving a resolute nod before they too stepped smartly out of the line.

They were quickly followed by several others, as if cowed by this admittedly brave act by one of the youngest there. There were nearly two dozen in the end, even Bavierre one of their number. The man appeared chastened but not remorseful, his jaw set tightly against what was likely a feeling of injustice.

After a long, tense wait, Treville grunted.

“For those of you who stepped forward; regardless of your part in this, your pay and your rations are halved for the next month; your duties are doubled; and each of you will see me in my office when called.”

A murmur if disquiet rippled around the men, softly enough so that the source could not be easily determined. Treville quelled it swiftly, his voice raised to a bark.

“Any of you who step out of line during that time – for _whatever_ reason, large or small – will be publicly flogged.”

The voices hushed, shock and horror on many a contrite face. Though Treville was not one to shy from the martinet given suitable offence, a public display was usually reserved for the very worst of crimes.

Treville nodded sternly.

“For those who did not step forward, those who think they can hide from their reckoning… when I find you – which I will – know that you’ve lost my respect, as well as your right to call yourself a musketeer.”

With that the Captain barked the dismissal.

“What did we tell you?” Aramis murmured as d’Artagnan watched the man with admiration. “The man is not our Captain for nothing.”

“Aramis, my office,” the captain called.

The man winced, and then shot d’Artagnan a wink and a grim smile.

“Time to go face the devil.”

oOo

Porthos entered Treville’s office at the summons. He stood before the Captain’s desk at silent attention waiting for the boot to drop.

Treville was standing beside his desk, frowning down at a parchment in his hand. After a while he sighed, gesturing to Porthos to sit as he did so himself.

“What’s the damage?” Porthos asked, keeping his voice mild despite the tension in the air.

Treville rested his elbow upon the chair arm, massaging his brow with his hand as he leant into it. “Three confessed to petty matters,” he started wearily, “if it weren’t for the rest of his injuries it would have warranted no more than a reprimand at best… eight confessed to colluding to keeping the armoury overstocked with repairs in order to, ah, “give the little shit something to really work for”, I believe were the words employed.”

Porthos snarled, but held his peace as the man continued.

“More confessed to minor unpleasantries; overzealous sparring, a shove here and there, harsh words and the like,” Treville gave a tight smile, “Aramis included.”

Porthos gave a brief snort. “His conscience’ll kill him one day,” he said without malice.

“Indeed.”

“What about the beatings?”

Treville sighed. “Only one man admitted to that, though it sounded like a minor confrontation, and judging his character I am inclined to believe him. The rest would not divulge their crimes or hedged around the subject, and no, I won’t be sharing their names with you or anyone else,” he said, cutting Porthos off before he had started. “I’ll have my eye on them, you have my word in that.”

Porthos let out his breath with a frustrated sigh. “I should’ve noticed,” he said, shaking his head.

Treville quirked a brow. Without speaking he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a decanter and two glasses. Pouring two measures he slid the second glass over to Porthos, who stared at it dully but didn’t reach out to take it.

“So, what are you going to do about it? Resign?”

“I should.”

“And who will that help?” Treville demanded coolly. “You? Certainly not Antionne. Like it or not he does bear some of the blame for this. He should have spoken up.”

“He might die,” Porthos said dully.

Treville nodded. “He may. But I think that’s selling his spirit a little short, don’t you? And if he wakes up – _when_ he wakes up – whose face do you want him to see? Yours, or another stranger’s ready to leave him the moment trouble arises?”

They shared a long, tense look. Then Porthos reached forward and took up the glass, downing the drink in one, quick swig.

oOo

He didn’t hurt.

The novelty of that was enough to drag Antionne further from slumber. With a great effort, he opened his eyes, blinking fuzzily at an unfamiliar ceiling. He felt like he was floating, oddly disconnected from his body, not quite in control of his limbs.

He could hear people talking nearby, but he could not decipher what was being said. Then the words and tone changed. Someone must have noticed he was awake.

A pair of dark, worried eyes came into view.

“How do you feel?”

“Never better,” Antionne murmured with a lazy smile.

“The opium has him quite baffled, I’m afraid.”

Antionne knew that disembodied voice. It belonged in the same, sharp world as those kind eyes; one he wasn’t, for some unexplainable reason, keen on returning to just yet.

“Are you thirsty?” asked the kind eyes.

Before he could fathom a response to that, Antionne felt himself carefully lifted until his mouth met the edge of a cup. Cool, blessed water trickled achingly slowly down his throat and he swallowed fast, seeking more.

“Careful, my friend, don’t force yourself.”

Antionne hummed appreciatively, feeling himself being settled back down into soft oblivion.

The next time he woke it was not such a comfortable experience. His opening eyes were met with shards of pain lancing into his skull, and when he groaned and rolled away from the awful sensation his back and chest lit up with fire.

Cool hands pressed against him, a gentle voice shushing.

“Now, I know this is hardly pleasant, dear boy, but try to stay still. I can’t risk any more opium right now, but you may take some warm honey-wine if you can manage it?”

Antionne grimaced, tears seeping past his creased eyelids, but he nodded all the same. This time sitting up was agony, and he choked back a sob as his backside came in harsher contact with the mattress.

“Come, lie upon your right hip,” Aramis instructed. “The left is still far too bruised to take your weight. You don’t need to take the cup, here, I have it… there now, slow sips… take it easy…”

Antionne let the man guide him, his eyes still pressed tightly shut. He flinched when the cup met his lips, his body still anticipating pain, but when none came, he slowly drew some of the soothing liquid into his mouth. Some trickled down his chin, but a cloth caught it before he could instruct his heavy arms to do the same.

When he had taken all he could bear, Antionne pulled back, cracking his eyes open the barest slit.

“Thank you, sir,” he croaked.

Aramis gave a huff. “Don’t thank me, dear boy, _please_.”

The man’s tone had an odd inflection, something Antionne’s tired mind could not fathom. But Aramis’s free hand had come to his head and was slowly stroking his hair.

“Rest, lad. You’ve earned it.”

The third time Antionne awoke, Porthos was in time to stop him getting out of his bed completely.

“Where the hell you think you’re goin’, runt?” the man asked him gruffly.

“The armoury,” Antionne muttered, keeping his eyes turned away from the man’s gaze. “It will be such a mess by now…” His head was spinning and throbbing badly, the room a dizzying blur.

“Don’t you worry about the armoury,” Porthos said, and again Antionne failed to decipher the man’s strange tone. It must be this sickness, whatever it was. Porthos sounded choked, almost as if he were close to tears. Did he have the same affliction? Had Antionne unwittingly spread some terrible disease to the other musketeers? He tried to rise once more but was gently but firmly pressed back into the pillows.

“You don’t understand, I have to get back to it. If I’m not there who knows what they’ll do…”

A hand rested itself upon his forehead, feeling blessedly cool, and the man frowned. “They ain’t going to be doing nothing else to the armoury, or you,” Porthos said.

Now that was a tone Antionne could understand. Porthos was angry.

At him.

Again.

“I’m sorry” he whined, more tears welling and then falling against his wishes. “I’m sorry sir, I tried. I tried so hard but it wasn’t enough. _I_ wasn’t enough.” He felt hands around him, arms holding him as delicately as porcelain. He sobbed, trying to pull away, his energy quickly leaving him. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I promise I shall. Please do not think poorly of me. I shall do better...”

Darkness was claiming Antionne again but he fought it. He had to make the man understand…

His last sight before oblivion was of Porthos’s stricken face, staring down at him in helpless sorrow.

oOo

A strong smell of beef broth woke Antionne from a deep and restful slumber.

He hummed at the pleasant scent, feeling more comfortable than in what felt like a month of nightmares and pain.

He turned his head at a chuckle from beside him and was not surprised to see Athos sitting at his side. Every time he had awoken in the past few days at least one if not more of the inseparables had been present. When he had grown more lucid they had spoken. It had not always been an altogether pleasant experience.

“Hungry?” Athos asked, one brow raised in amusement.

“Famished,” Antionne confirmed, “Ah… sir,” he corrected as the man reached forward to help him rise.

“Told you,” he heard Porthos rumble cheerfully from nearby, and looked past the man to see the remaining three inseparables within the confines of the garrison’s private infirmary room.

Aramis inclined his head toward the man with a smirk. “I bow in deference to your wisdom in medical matters, my friend. The next time I wish to rouse a patient from slumber I shall of course utilise a bowl of Serge’s best broth.”

The rest chuckled and d’Artagnan came forwards, a bowl in his hand.

“Here,” he said, but passed the bowl to Athos instead. “You’ve been asleep for three days more or less, with nothing but honeyed-wine to sustain you,” he explained gently, “let Athos lend a steadier hand, at least.”

Antionne flushed a little at the thought, but seeing the concern in his friend’s eyes, he conceded. He did feel so very weak, after all.

“I’d say it was a deal more than three days since you’ve last had a decent meal,” Athos said dryly as he helped to tilt the bowl for Antionne to drink the broth. “Am I right, young sir?”

Antionne swallowed the broth, grimacing at both the words and the uneasy way the food settled upon his shrunken stomach. He hadn’t meant to fast. He just hadn’t had time to eat. Or sleep. Aramis had already sat him through a long, uncomfortable lecture in regards to that particular issue.

“We can talk about that later,” Porthos said, rescuing him from his troubled thoughts. “Right now I recon—”

There was a knock on the door. The inseparables glanced warily to one another, and, after silent confirmation from Antionne, Porthos called the summons.

Pepin stepped hesitantly into the room, his back close to the door as he stared at the assembled men. He ducked his head, eyes locked upon the floorboards, his hands clasped behind his back.

“What do you want, boy?” Porthos asked, his words a menacing snarl.

Pepin winced a shamefilled frown, his eyes flickering up quickly to Antionne and away again.

“I heard master d’Melliour was awake…” he stammered, “I wished to give him my sincere apologies and…” he flushed, two high spots of colour on his cheekbones, “…and to return these.”

The boy thrust his hands out before him, a pair of expensive but well-worn boots in their grip.

“I know it serves as no excuse,” Pepin babbled as the five remained coldly silent, “but I truly believed it to be a harmless jest. I did not expect you not to notice, or… perhaps that you would buy another pair and not…” the boy’s eyes skipped to Antionne’s feet, laying, bandaged, above the bedcovers. He cleared his throat. “…well, I was wrong, and I wronged you terribly. It will never happen again.”

“Bloody right it won’t,” Porthos growled but was stopped from any further comment by Antionne’s raised hand.

“Please,” the boy said, “Monsieur Pepin has the right of it. Had I been more aware of my surroundings or able to identify the problem then it would not have been such a dastardly prank as all that. It was my own fault that I walked around in the wrong silly shoes for over a week.”

“You were near insensible with fatigue,” Aramis scolded. “You cannot take the blame for such an oversight.”

“Please, spare me no excuses,” Pepin added, his voice steady though he trembled under Porthos’s glare. “I have said my piece and I thank you for your kindness. I shall leave you to your recovery with no more interruption.”

And with a hasty bow, the boy fled.

Aramis could not help but chuckle.

“What?” he asked when Porthos shot him an aggrieved glare. “Truly it was not such a terrible crime, I can think of half a dozen similar pranks we would play on each other when we were novices.”

“That does not excuse it,” Athos said mildly. “Though I do admit it’s hardly the worst offence against our young friend, the punishment he received will serve as a goodly reminder against any more ‘pranks’.”

Antionne flushed and ducked his head at that. He still disliked hearing about what Treville had done to those who had wronged him, deserving or not. It had been one of the first topics broached with him once the fever had broken, Porthos reassuring him that no baleful shadows awaited him beyond the door.

“It doesn’t seem right he got the same as some of the others,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “Especially that bastard Bavierre.”

“Well I doubt all of em’s going to be as quick to come clean as he is,” Porthos pointed out sourly. He gave his mentee a look which the boy avidly ignored.

“You can’t expect the lad to go about naming names,” Aramis voiced the old protest. “Regardless of what Treville doles out you know that’s something the men won’t abide.”

“He don’t have to name anybody,” Porthos countered. “Say we’re just walkin’ down the street and the runt just happens to nod in a certain bastard’s direction, and later on that certain bastard just happens to have an accident. No one can blame him for that.”

“Porthos…” Athos growled, a hint of humour in his tone.

“Fine,” Porthos threw up his hands, giving Antionne the benefit of a raised brow that said clearly “we’ll discuss this later”.

“Never mind him,” d’Artagnan said, leaning in to Antionne to stage whisper, “Porthos gets in a frightful mood when he’s hungry.”

Aramis snorted inelegantly. “I would rather be hungry that stand through another of Treville’s lectures,” he said with a melodramatic shudder.

Antionne opened his mouth to protest once more that the pair had no place alongside those punished, but silenced when he caught Athos’s eye.

“Every stone in an avalanche plays its part,” the man said sternly, “no matter how small.”

Antionne gave a fretful nod and wisely kept his peace.

oOo

Two days later Aramis pronounced his charge fit enough to return to his quarters.

Though he was loath to admit it, Antionne silently agreed. His healing ribs still hurt abominably with each breath, but many of the other hurts were fading fast; once vivid black and purple bruises now changed to sickly yellows and greens.

Treville had visited that morning, their conversation grim and mostly one-sided. Though he had been assured no more trouble would come upon him, Antionne could not help feeling a vague unsettlement to the idea of leaving the safety of the infirmary and the watchful eyes of the inseparables. Still, he put a brave face on, eager not to give his friend any more cause to worry. He had been outfitted with a cane to aid his progress through the halls, but d’Artagnan and the others had insisted on an escort nevertheless.

“It will be pleasant to sleep in my own bed once more,” he said with a smile that was only partially forced.

“I bet you’re just glad to have a door between you and our Spanish friend,” D’Artagnan chuckled.

“His singular attentions were rather… exhausting,” Antionne admitted. He paused, and allowed d’Artagnan to take his weight a little more as he rested. “Were these hallways always so long?”

“Never fear, my friend. A few more days of Serge’s cooking and you’ll be running about good as new.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps I shall grow fat as a hen and be no use to any man!”

D’Artagnan shook his head as the pair continued their walk, “Can’t have that. I for one am getting mightily tired of Porthos griping about working in the armoury. We weren’t all made for the job like you, you know.”

Antionne ducked his head, letting his loose hair hide his grin. “I… am grateful.”

“Just remember to ask next time you need a hand, all right?”

“Yes, Charles,” Antionne parroted, the question and it’s answer, now rote.

When they reached the corridor that held his room they paused again, but this time it was not for Antionne to rest.

The door to his room was opening, someone stepping furtively out into the hall.

D’Artagnan leapt forward, snatching the intruder up by their collar and pushing them against the wall, his fist raised.

His support gone, Antionne lurched to catch the wall, unable to stop his friend in his thirst for vengeance.

“Wait!” another voice cried from the room, it’s owner grabbing d’Artagnan’s wrist to hold him back.

D’Artagnan tried to shake him off. The man under his hand was Manon de Bissy, the one hanging gamely onto his arm Luc d’Arcy.

“Charles, please, let him go,” Antionne gasped.

Seeing his friend in danger of falling, D’Artagnan gave de Bissy a vicious shove and quickly hurried to Antionne’s side.

“It’s not what you think,” de Bissy said, his eyes wide, haughty face contrite. “We heard Monsieur d’Melliour was returning to his rooms today and wished to… make amends.”

Antionne carefully raised himself up from his slump against d’Artagnan’s side. Slowly he came forward, passing the pair, who stepped quickly from his path, and looked into his room.

“New linens,” he noted dryly.

D’Arcy wet his lips nervously. “Freshly laundered,” he nodded, watching as Antionne limped further into the room to his desk.

“Where did you find another first edition?” he asked, running his fingers along the crisp, clean spine.

“M-my family’s private library,” de Bissy said. He and d’Arcy exchanged a wary glance. “We are most sincerely sorry,” he said, both bowing their heads low.

Antionne kept his solemn gaze upon the pristine room for a long moment. Then he turned to the men, hand held out for both to take.

“Apology accepted.”

oOo

It took a long time for the runt to answer Porthos’s knock and when he did the door on;y opened wide enough for a pale face to peek out.

The relief that flooded Antionne’s features on seeing his mentor sent another wave of guilt through him.

“You can put the knife down, s’only me.”

Antionne blanched, then stepped back to open the door wider, free hand gesturing in invitation.

“How did you know?” He asked, setting the hidden weapon down on his writing desk. It was a sturdy gauche, not an improvised weapon of the unprepared.

Porthos snorted. “ _Please_ … ‘sides I’ve been there. The court of miracles weren’t always fun and games.”

Antionne nodded distractedly, limping to the bed and sitting down with a weary sigh. He waved to the room’s only chair but Porthos came to sit beside him instead, turning to face his charge with a frown.

Antionne swallowed thickly, his heart hammering hard enough to crack his newly healing chest.

“I know,” he said after the silence had gone on too long, hanging his head. “I was foolish and let my pride almost get me killed.”

Porthos shook his head. He lifted his hands, setting them gently upon Antionne’s shoulders. “It ain’t that, son. I told you. Sometimes… sometimes pride’s all you got left.”

Antionne paused, surprise tweaking his brow into a frown. “But I—”

“Look,” Porthos said. He cleared his throat, looking away for a moment while he struggled for the words. “What happened to you… what we did to you, it weren’t right and it weren’t fair. But you stood it. You took what we gave you and you carried on as if nothin’ were wrong. I ain’t sayin’ it was right,” he said, brow raised as he met the boy’s eyes with a reproving glare until Antionne blushed and ducked his head, “but I ain’t judging you badly for it either.

“I should’a listened to you. I should’a… I should’a been there for you. And I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

Antionne jerked his head back and forth, tears filming his eyes. “Please don’t… don’t be,” he stuttered. “Sir, I let it happen, I’m the one who didn’t speak up.”

“I told you, I’ve been there, right?” Porthos said, in stern, hushed tones. “You know this place is just for noble kids, yeah? Then here come’s Porthos, straight from the gutter: twice as dark and half as clever, right?”

“No one thinks that!” Antionne scoffed.

Porthos’s hands squeezed his shoulders gently. “They did,” he said just as gently. “Once, they did. And it was me who got the meanness, and spite, and the muck. They say those things long enough you begin to think they might be right. Got myself more’n one floggin’ from the Captain for brawlin’ with me betters.” He quirked a lopsided grin at Antionne’s shocked expression and chuckled. “Well, ‘least that’s what I thought it was for, anyway. Truth was though, Treville didn’t give a shit about where I was from or who I was fightin’, only that we were brothers. And we brothers don’t fight each other. Here it’s all for one, and one for all. And it _means_ something. Something better than all of us. Until the others realised that – until I realised that – well…” he chuckled again, “I recon’ you know all about that anyway.”

Antionne thought back to an earlier time, to an earlier, worse version of himself who looked down at a new recruit straight from the farm with a sneer and a fist. He remembered Gaspard’s response to it all, once the shackles of his father’s disapproval had been removed. His backside gave a sympathetic throb at the memory. Porthos’s treatment the other day had been gentle in comparison.

“Well,” Porthos cleared his throat, “point is, I should’a recognised the signs. I failed you. But I won’t let it happen again.”

Antionne tried to swallow past the knot in his throat. Unable to speak he simply gave a halting nod. His vision was blurred by tears, his breathing erratic, chest hurting with more than just fractured ribs.

“You’re a good man, Antionne,” Porthos said, one of his hands coming to take the boy’s chin. “You’re a _great_ Musketeer… If… if you still want to be.”

Antionne blinked in shock, his tears forgotten.

Porthos’s face was twisted uncomfortably, not quite meeting his eyes as he continued, “You’ve got the choice. We all failed you… don’t deserve... Treville’s got contacts in lots’a other garrisons that’d be lucky to have you. No one’s gonna think any less of you...”

He was pulling away, sitting back to give him room to decide without fear of reprisal. Antionne snatched Porthos’s hand as it left his face, holding it in both of his, blazing eyes fixed upon his mentor’s.

“I’m not running away,” he said vehemently.

“It ain’t—”

“ _No_.”

Porthos studied him for a long moment and then broke into a genuine smile. He lifted his free hand to ruffle Antionne’s hair. “Yeah,” he chuckled. His expression softened then. “I’m proud of you, runt. We all are. You know that, yeah?”

Antionne ducked his head, nodding enough to scatter fresh tears upon the blankets between them. He chocked on a laugh, feeling his heart lighten, the great weight on his shoulders lifting.

Porthos dragged him forwards, careful as he pulled him into a hug. Antionne laid his head upon the man’s shoulder and sagged into the touch, letting his relieved tears fall without measure.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said again, one hand upon his hair the other tracing soothing circles over his back.

Antionne sobbed. “I forgive you,” he sniffled, the words barely coherent. “If you will forgive me.”

The hold tightened imperceptibly.

“Always, kid.”

 


End file.
